


A Beautiful Disaster

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, basically les amis have a party and things get a bit heated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you actually just come in your pants?” Grantaire asks, almost incredulously, “In your fucking jeans? God, Enjolras, are you actually twelve years old?”</p><p>Or that time Enjolras got drunk and decided he wanted to suck Grantaire off in his bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beautiful Disaster

 

It starts off as most disasters usually do: Courfeyrac has an idea.

“My friends, I have a plan,” he announces to Les Amis one afternoon at the Musain.

This is met with a collective groan from the group and a “Dear Lord, not again” from Combeferre, at which Courfeyrac looks visibly offended.

“It's a good plan!” he insists, flapping his arms around a bit, and he continues before anyone can interrupt him, “I'm officially inviting you all round to a house party tomorrow night.”

“A house party?” Enjolras scoffs, “We're not _twelve_ , Courfeyrac.”

He seems to have forgotten about Gavroche, who lets out a huff of irritation and mutters something under his breath that Enjolras can't hear.

“House parties aren't exclusive to preteens, you know,” says Grantaire, “In fact, I don't think twelve-year-olds even _have_ house parties.”

“Courf,” Combeferre cuts in, fiddling with his glasses, “Did you not think to ask your roommates about this?” 

Courfeyrac looks sheepishly at his two best friends and runs a hand through his dark curls.

Jehan smiles. “I think it's an excellent idea, Courf,” they say, which makes the man grin proudly, “I'm totally up for it. It'll be fun. And there'll be booze, right?”

Courfeyrac scoffs as if this is an absurd question. “Of _course,_ my dear flower child."

“Well, count me in,” says Grantaire from across the room. Enjolras glares at him.

“Me too,” Joly pipes in.

“Me three,” says Bossuet, then he realises that he's actually the fourth person to agree to this plan, “Wait, fuck. Me four?”

Musichetta reluctantly agrees to attend the party (“for the sake of my boys”). Bahorel and Feuilly both decide that the party sounds like a good plan, and, with a little encouragement from Cosette, so does Marius. Éponine shrugs it off and decides that she has nothing better to do with her time. Then there's Gavroche who, despite Courfeyrac's pleading, isn't allowed to come because “he's just a kid, Courf, I'm not exposing him to your obscene drunken antics”, according to an exasperated Combeferre who eventually agrees to the party purely to please Courfeyrac.

That just leaves Enjolras, who whines about the whole thing like an actual twelve-year-old for about ten minutes (Grantaire takes the opportunity to call him out on this afterwards). Eventually he is forced into agreeing, since he _lives_ with Courfeyrac so the prospect of getting out of this seems slim.

Even before it's happened Enjolras fears it will be a catastrophe. And it is, but a good catastrophe, if that's even possible.

 

*

 

The first person to arrive is Jehan, and at this point Enjolras is still wearing his flannel pyjama pants and red t-shirt from the previous night.

“Honestly, Enj, you're so lazy,” Jehan tells him with a cluck of their teeth, “I've been up since six o'clock this morning doing yoga and band practice, and here you are in your fucking pyjamas.”

Enjolras lets out a groan. “Well, not everyone's as _weird_ as you, Jehan.” 

“Lazy chauvinist cock,” Prouvaire murmurs.

“Stupid flower poet,” retorts Enjolras.

“Alright, children, that's enough,” interrupts Combeferre, walking into the living room with a bottle of red wine, “And a side note: Enjolras, you are absolutely shit at insults.”

Enjolras pouts at this, and Jehan smirks triumphantly, at which point Courfeyrac comes bounding into the room and tackles them both. They all topple over with a thud, Courfeyrac landing on top of his friends.

“Jesus Christ,” Enjolras wheezes, “Get off me, you idiot.”

Courfeyrac refuses to move and instead peppers Jehan's cheeks with kisses (which is quite hard when the latter has their face squashed against the floor).

“Jehan, you came!” says Courfeyrac in an almost dreamy tone that makes Combeferre chortle.

“Of course I did, sunshine. Now can I please-”

The doorbell rings, and is followed by persistent and increasingly aggressive knocking.

“Must be Bahorel,” Combeferre states, before walking through to the hall to answer the door.

It is indeed Bahorel, accompanied by a carefree as ever Feuilly. They have a bottle of vodka _each_ and as soon as they lay eyes on Enjolras they burst into hysterical laughter. 

“What are you- Oh, you can all piss off, I'm going to get changed.”

Ten minutes later Enjolras comes back downstairs, dressed in black skinny jeans and a red sweater, golden hair tied scruffily into a bun. At this point Joly, Bossuet and Chetta have arrived too, and some of the group (read: Courfeyrac) are already a little tipsy.

Marius and Cosette are the next to arrive. Cosette looks angelic as usual, clad in a lacy white dress with her dyed blonde hair loose on her shoulders, the blue tips contrasting with the pale material. Marius is overdressed as usual, wearing a shirt, corduroy trousers and a bloody _waistcoat._ Courfeyrac bounds over to the couple like an excitable puppy and hugs them both tightly. 

“Marius, my son!” he cries, “And Cosy, my beautiful croissant!” 

Marius looks mortified when Courfeyrac kisses them both, his cheeks tomato red, but Cosette is laughing.

Combeferre shakes his head and resists the urge to smile fondly. “God, you're hilarious when you're drunk.”

A while passes, and Enjolras begins to wonder (no, worry) whether Grantaire is actually coming. It's not that he would mind if he didn't. He just quite likes Grantaire's company. Even if the man is a complete pain in the ass sometimes. A total pain in the- _Wait._ Enjolras' cheeks turn scarlet and for he's filled with concern that someone can read his mind, as absurd as that sounds. He did _not_ just think about _that_ , he absolutely didn't, and he decides it must be the alcohol (although he hasn't touched a drop of the stuff yet).

But then, true to his word and predictably late, Grantaire shows up. He has Éponine on his arm and they both appear to be a little drunk already, judging from their broad grins and the lingering smell of wine on their breaths.

Grantaire's first priority it seems is to talk to Joly and Bossuet, which for some reason infuriates Enjolras immensely and he's practically sulking in the kitchen when Combeferre shoots an expression of concern at him. Enjolras just sighs and shakes his head, gesturing that everything's fine. Everything _is_ fine, he assures himself, but he can't quite believe it.

He decides to observe the rest of the group to take his mind off things. Feuilly and Bahorel appear to be wrestling on the floor (Enjolras doesn't think he wants to ask), Cosette and Marius are being sickeningly affectionate as usual, Jehan and Éponine seem to be having some sort of debate, and Courfeyrac is straddling Combeferre on the sofa.

Enjolras blinks. 

Yes, Courfeyrac is, in fact, sat on top of Combeferre and is currently giving him what appears to be some sort of drunken lap dance. The latter's glasses have been removed so he's squinting, and Courfeyrac keeps pressing sloppy kisses to his neck. Enjolras rubs his temples and picks up a bottle of vodka from the counter. He takes a few gulps then coughs dramatically, his throat burning, but then he drinks some more. 

That's when everything starts to go wrong (or, at least, it will seem wrong in the morning, when Enjolras has a pounding headache and vomits into the toilet).

Being the world's biggest light-weight except Marius and Courfeyrac, the vodka has an instant effect on Enjolras and causes him to dizzily stumble back into the living room. His vision a little blurred, he looks for Grantaire. He's no longer with Joly and Bossuet (they're in a make-out session with Musichetta, which is quite impressive since there are three of them) and is, apparently, nowhere to be seen.

“Where's 'Taire?” Enjolras asks nobody in particular, his voice slurred.

“He went to the loo,” Éponine tells him, then she laughs dryly, “But I wouldn't go after him if I were you, blondie. He's probably wanking his dick sore.”

Enjolras is too inebriated to comprehend most of the sentence, but he catches the words 'loo' and 'dick' (the latter makes his cheeks flush pink) and he clumsily makes his way upstairs to the bathroom.

Grantaire is, indeed, in the bathroom, but he's left the door wide open. Enjolras' mind feels fuzzy and he doesn't understand why Grantaire is stood in front of the sink doing nothing in particular. 

“What're you...?” he begins, speaking his thoughts aloud, but a hiccup interrupts him and sends him into a fit of giggles.

Grantaire turns around and regards him with a look of horror. “Oh shit. You're drunk, aren't you?”

“S'what?” Enjolras asks, unable to form his words properly, “You're always drunk.”

“Yeah, I _am_ a drunk,” Grantaire states, “But you're not, and you seem completely pissed. How much have you had?” 

Enjolras attempts to count on his fingers, which makes no sense since he drank the vodka straight from the bottle.

“Much,” he tells Grantaire, and the man puts his head in his hands.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, “You're actually fucking wasted, aren't you?”

The blond giggles again. “That's a naughty word, 'Taire!”

Grantaire feels a shiver down his spine at the abbreviation of his name, because Enjolras _never_ calls him that.

“I think maybe you should go to bed,” he says.

Enjolras purses his lips.

“You should,” Grantaire asserts, “Or you'll do something that you'll end up regretting tomorrow.”

Suddenly, Enjolras has an idea. He steps into the bathroom, trying to keep his balance, and shuts the door. Grantaire stares at him incredulously as he fiddles with the lock, trapping them both in. 

“What the hell are you-”

He's cut off by Enjolras springing forward and impatiently pressing their lips together. Grantaire is stunned for a moment, then he returns the kiss and quickly takes dominance, winding his fingers into Enjolras' golden curls and tugging gently. This makes him moan and Grantaire takes this as encouragement, nipping at his bottom lip. Enjolras' hands slide up his shirt, and Grantaire shivers as his fingers trace along his skin.

Grantaire pulls his hair harder, exposing Enjolras' neck. It's covered in freckles, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to lick each and every one of them, occasionally taking the smooth skin between his teeth. Enjolras whimpers, and Grantaire can feel the hardness pressing on his thigh.

Enjolras pulls away all of a sudden. Concerned, Grantaire is about to ask what's wrong, but he stops when he sees the _really_ unfair sight of Enjolras dropping to his knees. The younger man gazes up at him with expectant blue eyes and licks his pink lips slowly, and all the blood rushes to Grantaire's groin. He shudders as Enjolras bites his lip and _whines_ , like a fucking dog begging for a treat, and it's the most beautiful and sinful sound he has ever heard.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras practically mewls, “Please let me suck you off.”

Grantaire feels his cock twitch. “Oh _fuck_ , Enjolras, you can't just _say_ things like that.”

This is so wrong, he thinks, so dirty. They're at a party with all their friends and they're both drunk and they're in a fucking _bathroom_ , but right now Grantaire can't bring himself to care. He fumbles with his belt and lowers his trousers, then his underwear.

Enjolras tilts his head to one side, as if asking for permission. Grantaire just swears at this, the image of the beautiful man kneeling in front of him making him tremble. Slowly at first, Enjolras licks along his shaft, and Grantaire lets out a groan of pleasure as his tongue flicks over the head. He's painfully hard now. The hum that Enjolras makes as he takes the prick in his mouth sends vibrations through Grantaire's whole body, and he's in complete ecstasy.

And then there's a knock at the door.

“You okay, R? You sound like your dying.”

Combeferre's voice sends Grantaire into a panic, but Enjolras (the absolute devil) keeps sucking and licking and it's _so hard_ for Grantaire not to cry out in bliss.

“I-I'm fine Ferre, I just.... _A-ah, fuck_... I'm...”

“Oh right,” Combeferre sounds flustered now, “Well, erm, I'll be off then. Sorry to... Interrupt.” 

There's silence, and for a second Grantaire thinks that he's gone.

“Oh, have you seen Enjolras?” the man asks as an afterthought.

 _Have I seen Enjolras?_ Grantaire thinks, _Well, he's currently sucking my cock like an absolute slut, so I suppose I have._

“No, sorry,” he replies instead, and he's practically panting.

“Uh. Okay. Bye then.”

Thank God that Combeferre's gone, because when Grantaire glances down at Enjolras and sees him staring up at him, wide-eyed and playful, he comes utterly undone. With a final thrust and a loud groan, Grantaire comes into Enjolras' mouth, and he's left quivering with specs of light distorting his vision. Enjolras swallows slowly, _purposely_ , and Grantaire's knees tremble. 

“Oh, fuck. That was.... Fucking hell, Enjolras.”

“Was I good?” asks Enjolras in a sultry tone.

“You were fucking brilliant,” Grantaire nearly laughs, “But you... You're still..." 

“Hard for you, I know,” Enjolras interrupts, almost conversationally, “I'm so damn hard, Grantaire,” His voice is getting more shaky and high-pitched now, more needy, “I want you to fuck me.”

Grantaire hisses through his teeth. “Jesus... Look, I'm not going to... To do _that_ whilst you're drunk, since you're so big on consent and everything. But I, uh, I could still help you out with, uh...”

Enjolras is already palming himself through his jeans, and it's actually quite hilarious how desperate he is.

“You really are a horny drunk, aren't you?” Grantaire chuckles.

Enjolras just moans as he thrusts into his own hand, and Grantaire gulps. He's about to get down and help him, he really is, but the shriek of obscene pleasure that he lets out a moment later assures him that he doesn't need to.

“Did you actually just come in your pants?” Grantaire asks, almost incredulously, “In your fucking _jeans_? God, Enjolras, are you _actually_ twelve years old?”

The blond is lying on the tile floor, panting, and Grantaire kneels down and strokes his curls fondly until he's ready to get up again.

When they get back downstairs, nobody seems to notice them except Combeferre, who's wearing a smug grin across his face, and Grantaire's so humiliated he wants to _die_ (in the morning, so will Enjolras).

 

 

 


End file.
